Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.

LEONATO Neighbours, you are tedious. DOGBERRY It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

Thy friendship makes us fresh.

I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear